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In the Student Union Building, Anna gets coffee. Starbucks is, unsurprisingly, the only thing open in this storm, commerce’s cockroach. She
Among climate scientists, especially those who have spent years in the field, they jokingly refer to it as “pretraumatic stress disorder,” but the feelings themselves are no joke: anger, hopelessness, depression, panic—a recurring nightmare in which you see the tsunami on the horizon but can’t convince anyone to leave the beach. She knows scientists who have become drunks, who have dropped out and moved to the desert, who have committed suicide.
This hits Anna like a fist, and she pictures students protesting the now-weekly school shootings with their perfectly reasonable request to apply some basic common sense and rational thought, to do something—to enact some basic gun laws—and how demoralizing it must be to see those same adults shrug helplessly at the backward, illogical politics, to act as if nothing can be done when clearly everything can be done.
